


Fowl play

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Breakfast, Chick - Freeform, Chickens, Chickfic, F/M, Hens, It's not just puns, Lower your eggspectations, Pre-Relationship, Punplay, Season/Series 03, Sunny side up, There is something of a story here, Wordpun, punderful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 05:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14948387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: A stakeout gone wrong. Eggs. Chickens. Breakfast in Jack’s kitchen.(Also known as Chickfic.)





	Fowl play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eara/gifts).



> For Eara, and she knows why. This all started when some of us writers and readers were wondering what happened to Nathan Page’s chickens when he moved to Adelaide. So obviously, now Jack owns chickens as well. Set during season 3, probably during the second half when Phrack have finally decided not to drive each other insane by being idiots. *snort*
> 
> Many thanks to [221A_brina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina) for beta-ing!

 

“Now then Jack, tell me about your chickens.”

Phryne – wearing a black blouse and trousers – was seated at Jack’s kitchen table, and although she had only been here once before to invite him over for her ‘Christmas in July’ celebration, she felt right at home. His kitchen was small and somewhat cluttered, but it was quintessentially Jack.

She had entertained herself, looking around the small room as he puttered about in the garden before starting on breakfast. She’d read some of the book covers – as books were literally stuffed into every available nook and cranny of the kitchen – discovering not only the expected Grey and Shakespeare, but also Austen, Darwin, Proust and Melville.

It was still very early, and she was rather tired. She surmised it had to be around five in the morning. Light was carefully creeping in through the kitchen window, but the slowly rising sun had difficulty penetrating the thick fog that lay upon the land like a blanket. Spring would soon be upon them.

Last night’s stakeout had been an absolute bust.

She had sat next to Jack in the backseat of his car, observing the home of one of their latest suspects, and she had to commend herself on her self-control. So maybe her hand on his thigh as she’d leaned in to look over his shoulder had not been entirely necessary, but he had not removed it.

Well, not right away, anyway.

Their suspect had not shown up. Unsurprisingly, because it turned out they had been sent to the wrong address. She reckoned poor Constable Haynes would suffer the Inspector’s wrath later that day.

She _had_ , however, been surprised by Jack’s suggestion to abort the mission and to go and have breakfast. Together. She had been astonished – but had hidden that quite well – when he’d actually driven them to his place, offering her the simple explanation, when he caught her surprised expression, that his place was closer.

He had his broad back to her as he fussed over the stove, preparing their breakfast, and she did not mind the view one bit. Jack in his perfectly pressed – albeit slightly rumpled – woollen trousers, braces and creased shirtsleeves was a sight to be admired.

She supposed Jack sans woollen trousers, braces and shirtsleeves was a sight that would have her on her feet in an instant.

And then she would have _him_ on the floor.

How he could make messy, dishevelled and sleepless look this good, she had no idea. She then realised she was probably looking a fright. 

“I’m not sure what there is to tell you about the chickens, Miss Fisher,” he stated, “How would you like your eggs? Scrambled, sunny side up?”

“I think today, I’ll go with _over easy,_ Jack,” she purred at him.

She noticed his posture stiffen momentarily, before relaxing. She was certain that there was a witty retort on his beautifully sculpted lips, but his natural reticence and nobility prevented the possibly provocative words to spill forth.

 

***

 

 _This is nice,_ Phryne thought to herself; Jack in his home surroundings was absolutely lovely. Her black coat and beret were on the coat rack beside his overcoat and fedora. He was cooking her breakfast and the cottage smelled of eggs, sandalwood, and old books. He’d taken off his waistcoat and jacket, which she supposed he’d only done out of habit. The domesticity she’d always feared suddenly did not seem quite as daunting as it once had.

“Do you often sing to your chickens, Inspector?” she asked. He handed her the plate of eggs on toast, then sat down across from her.

“Pardon?”

“It was rather good, although I’m not sure if they are a very appreciative audience,” she mused.

He swallowed his rather large mouthful of eggs and toast.

“Perhaps, but they’re a _quiet_ audience,” he quipped as he took another large bite, looking up at her, expression neutral but for the twinkle in his eye, betraying his mischievous intent.

He really loved food, and she adored watching him indulge and enjoy himself.

She decided it was time to test the waters, now that both Compton and Concetta were firmly in their pasts.

“I don’t know, Jack. You could be suspected of fowl play, playing favourites with those ladies,” she accused, as she took a much smaller bite of her eggs.

“You crack me up, Miss Fisher,” he deadpanned, though she could detect the beginnings of a trademark Jack Robinson smirk.

She smiled back at him. _Oh_ , this was going to be fun.

 

***

 

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence – Jack sparingly reading the newspaper aloud and Phryne making clever remarks, enjoying the soothing huskiness of his voice in the early morning.

_I could get used to this._

The thought both terrified her in its suddenness and yet also made her look forward to the morning when – not if – she’d finally wake up next to Jack Robinson. He’d make her their first post-lovemaking-breakfast, looking just as rumpled and delicious as he did now.

And preferably naked. 

She eyed his last slice of buttered toast with serious intent.

“You know, Jack, for a man who sings to his chickens, you certainly seem to always enjoy Mr. Butler’s roast chicken dinners.”

“I do. That man is a miracle. I must ask for the recipe the next time I see him,” he rumbled from behind the newspaper in that deep, far too arousingly husky morning voice.

She smiled at his open admiration of her staff and his honest appreciation of another member of her little family.

“But then how would I be able to persuade you to continue coming to dinner at Wardlow, Inspector?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, Miss Fisher.”

“Oh, I will.”

She reached for his plate and narrowed her eyes at him – well, at the newspaper – when he moved the plate just out of arm’s reach without even lowering the paper.

 

***

 

Jack got up to make some more tea when she requested a cup of coffee instead.

“I didn’t know you drank coffee, Miss Fisher,” he confessed, his back to her as he prepared the coffee, humour in his voice.

He turned around, his brow furrowed with mild concern as he looked at her, as she again attempted to snatch up his toast. She barely had time to pull her hand back, feigning complete innocence.

“Too soon?” he asked softly.

“Not at all, Jack. I was just wondering if you’d like me to make a _formal confession_ ,” she retaliated in a low voice, putting specific emphasis on the last part of her sentence and looking quite smug while doing so.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, handing her the steaming mug of hot coffee and pouring one for himself.

He sat down and clutched his warm cup with both hands, his fingers too thick to fit through the handle. (Oh _my_ , but her vivid imagination was about to run away with her envisioning all the things those fingers were capable of.) He gingerly sipped the hot liquid, closing his eyes and letting out a pleased rumble from deep within his chest as his face relaxed, the very embodiment of contentment.

The man was far too alluring for his own good.

“So, are you more of a breast or a thigh-man, Jack?”

She supposed that question had been a bit, well, cheeky, but she did not expect for Jack to sputter and nearly choke to death on his next sip of coffee. She jumped to her feet and walked around the table just as he reflexively pushed back his chair – the wood scraping on the tiled floor – to allow for enough space to hunch over and cough.

Phryne took the hot mug from his hands and set it down, standing between the table and Jack’s chair, patting him on the back until he raised his own hands, signalling he was fine.

She hopped up to perch on the edge of the table, letting her legs dangle down as he sat up and raised his red-rimmed eyes at her.

She wasn’t sure if it was because of the tears in his eyes – the result of his coughing fit –, the blush on his cheeks or because of the wavy golden hair that had fallen onto his forehead, adding to his already dishevelled look, but her cunt throbbed violently in desperate need at the sight of him.

Not to be deterred in his own home as well, and not ready to cede his territory, he boldly moved the chair in towards the table, bringing her knees level with his shoulders. The luxurious material of her trousers brushed the cotton of his shirt.

She watched him, almost mesmerized. He’d never taken such liberties with her – although she took them all the time when it came to him. She was suddenly both giddy and breathless with anticipation.

He coughed one final time before addressing her.

“I must confess I find myself without a preference for either one of those, Miss Fisher.”

All of that coughing had only made his voice raspier, and she could feel her knickers becoming wet.

“Is that so?”

“It is, indeed.”

(He did, in fact, have a preference, and she was sitting on it.)

She noticed he was absent-mindedly tracing the hem of her black trouser leg with his long, rugged fingers, his eyes tracking the movements as though they were not his own.

_Oh, Jack. You could have had me from the start._

“I think you prefer breasts, Inspector. Why else would you own only hens, and not one _cock_?”

Jack looked as though he was apoplectic, frozen in place.

With Jack suitably distracted, she managed to grab the final piece of buttered toast from his plate on the table behind her.

He frowned at her, his brow once again furrowing in annoyance.

“I suppose I never saw the point, Miss Fisher.”

She subtly – read: not subtle in the least – let her eyes drift down to his groin and noticed his trousers fit him rather snugly, to say the least.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Inspector. I can see the point from where I’m sitting,” she quipped, with a teasing smirk on her lips, and a lilt to her voice which she knew he found irresistible.

He pinched her calf, and she yelped, attempting to kick him in the chest but he pre-emptively grabbed hold of her ankles.

“Don’t be crass,” he rumbled.

The admonishment made her cunt flutter.

To her delight, his fingertips continued their exploration, moving inside of her trouser legs and tracing her bare calves, leaving trails of fire and goosebumps wherever he touched her.

“So which one is it then, Jack? Are you chicken... or are you game?” she challenged him whilst taking a dainty bite from the toast, baring her teeth and licking her lips after swallowing.

He did not look up, but simply removed his hands from her calves.

“You’re skating on thin ice, Miss Fisher.”

She was sure that he meant it as warning, but his feather light touches moving up from her knees to her inner-thighs belied his intentions. He squeezed her thighs and she suddenly wished she had worn a dress to their stakeout. She squirmed as he massaged her legs through the material of her pants.

“Don’t you mean ‘You’re walking on eggshells’, Jack?” she asked him somewhat breathlessly.

Emboldened, she moved the delicate porcelain fingers of her hand through his hair – the other still holding the toast she nibbled daintily. She was fascinated by the stark contrast between this Jack and yesterday’s Detective Inspector, and the contrast between the paleness of her skin and the darker shade of the strands passing through her fingers. She tugged on his rumpled locks when he failed to respond.

He actually _moaned_ softly when she pulled his unruly hair, and the sound sent a rush of sensation through her body, setting it alight.

 _This is interesting..._ She filed the piece of information away for later contemplations.

“Stop that,” he grunted, clasping her wrist to prevent her from continuing.

Pulled forward ever so slightly by the weight of his strong hand on her forearm, she used the momentum to lower herself into his lap, straddling his thighs and putting her hands around his neck, planting her feet on the cold, tiled floor.

“But I _do_ so enjoy ruffling your feathers, Jack,” she pouted, her free hand stroking the coarse, short hairs at his nape, her other still gripping the pilfered toast, holding it away from him.

His hands had come to rest upon her shapely hips, loosely holding her in place. Her entire body felt as though it was on fire, sensitive to every sensation, relishing in the feel of his hard, angular body against her soft, curvy one. Her nipples hardened under his intense scrutiny and she had to lower her head.

It suddenly dawned on her what was about to happen, what could happen, and the enormity of the moment hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Jack, I—”

The words died on her lips as one gentle finger raised her chin, forcing her to look him at him. His eyes were hooded and dark, his pupils dilated, his breathing shallow, lips parted. He silently dared her to back down.

She felt it before she saw it; he was slowly tilting his hips upwards. Jack pressed his obvious desire against her clothed centre and she could feel his heat through the layers of clothing they still wore. As he ground himself against her, she could see his face twitch with barely suppressed arousal as his hands tightened on her hips, pulling her down and proving to her that he did own a cock, after all.

Phryne felt her pulse jump in her throat. Excitement mingled with arousal as she realised that Jack was teasing her, was _more_ than teasing her. He was meeting her in the middle, giving her a taste of her own medicine, as it were, and it was exhilarating. Thrilling. And utterly addictive.

How she wished he could be sheathed inside of her right now.

She gasped, then moaned in surprise as he bucked his hips, less gentle this time, urging her to grind herself against him. The heat of his manhood pressed against the apex of her thighs caused her to close her eyes against the overwhelming sensations.

_Jack... Finally._

Before she realised what was happening, he let go of one of her hips. She opened her eyes just as he snatched the toast from her limp hand behind his neck and took a large bite, smirking in victory.

“It will be a long time coming before you’ll have me completely henpecked, Miss Fisher.”

She squealed in both delight and indignation as he hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her towards his bedroom, munching on the recovered slice of toast while doing so.

 

***

 

He made her breakfast the next morning, and every morning after that.

And every morning, she still pinched his toast.

 

**Author's Note:**

> No chickens were harmed during the writing of this Chickfic.
> 
> Phryne refers to my fic [Sweet surprise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861053) when stating she has been in his kitchen before. It is why the set-up is similar.


End file.
